As their breathing evened out, and their eyes burned with the overwork, and the Socialite and Professor spoke in turns, the Tailor became filled with a certainty:
That these people, as good-hearted as they were, well-meaning and full of compassion and empathy for others, with their own fears and imperfections, would never understand them.
The Correspondence had shown everyone truths, and it was truths most if not all the others seemed to fear. Yes, the Tailor had become aware of their own ugliness on looking away from the board, returning to themself, but the language in itself had not grabbed the Tailor by the throat and told them they were a weak child incapable of fooling anyone. This shame came not from being exposed to or seen by the light but to their body's own inability to withstand.
The Tailor was not yet done becoming who they would be, that much the Professor was correct about. Whatever they were was a mess of contradictions, a matter of 'balance in pulling at opposite directions/the complexity found in a single existence' that they needed to center in themself. They knew this intimately. They would win in this endeavor. Failure was not an option.
The issue they took umbrage with was the idea anyone else would see it. The Socialite had said something earlier that was still stuck in the Tailor's craw. "There's quite a lot you can get away with expressin' down 'ere that ye couldn't up there." Whatever his point of comparison 'up there', the Tailor had no frame of reference for it. 'Down here', maybe people could be more free than the Surface, but to them it was all the same. This was London. So long as one person met another person, opinions were formed. Too many times, the opinion that had been formed of them, from Agile Troublemaker to Alert Teenager, was that the thing that they were was not good enough to keep.
So the image they cultivated and curated was for others. It was no less them, but it was the bits of them that were acceptable. Craftsman. Artisan. Quiet, dark, maybe a little handsome to some, with dry wit and eye for detail. There was no lie, there. They were not protecting some soft underbelly with a steely demeanor. The underbelly was the steel.
These good people in this class were fairly kind, and had hurts and flaws. Under their crafted shells they were people with pains, who reached out to each other for compassion. The Tailor's shell concealed a monster. The child had grown claws.
Enough hiding in the closet. They were an adult, and there was a class to attend. They braced themself on the shelves and tried slowly to find their footing. The goggles were replaced on their face, while they leaned their weight against the wall and slowly found their balance.
"I'm coming out," they warned, and then they opened the door.
Re: Break Time
That these people, as good-hearted as they were, well-meaning and full of compassion and empathy for others, with their own fears and imperfections, would never understand them.
The Correspondence had shown everyone truths, and it was truths most if not all the others seemed to fear. Yes, the Tailor had become aware of their own ugliness on looking away from the board, returning to themself, but the language in itself had not grabbed the Tailor by the throat and told them they were a weak child incapable of fooling anyone. This shame came not from being exposed to or seen by the light but to their body's own inability to withstand.
The Tailor was not yet done becoming who they would be, that much the Professor was correct about. Whatever they were was a mess of contradictions, a matter of 'balance in pulling at opposite directions/the complexity found in a single existence' that they needed to center in themself. They knew this intimately. They would win in this endeavor. Failure was not an option.
The issue they took umbrage with was the idea anyone else would see it. The Socialite had said something earlier that was still stuck in the Tailor's craw. "There's quite a lot you can get away with expressin' down 'ere that ye couldn't up there." Whatever his point of comparison 'up there', the Tailor had no frame of reference for it. 'Down here', maybe people could be more free than the Surface, but to them it was all the same. This was London. So long as one person met another person, opinions were formed. Too many times, the opinion that had been formed of them, from Agile Troublemaker to Alert Teenager, was that the thing that they were was not good enough to keep.
So the image they cultivated and curated was for others. It was no less them, but it was the bits of them that were acceptable. Craftsman. Artisan. Quiet, dark, maybe a little handsome to some, with dry wit and eye for detail. There was no lie, there. They were not protecting some soft underbelly with a steely demeanor. The underbelly was the steel.
These good people in this class were fairly kind, and had hurts and flaws. Under their crafted shells they were people with pains, who reached out to each other for compassion. The Tailor's shell concealed a monster. The child had grown claws.
Enough hiding in the closet. They were an adult, and there was a class to attend. They braced themself on the shelves and tried slowly to find their footing. The goggles were replaced on their face, while they leaned their weight against the wall and slowly found their balance.
"I'm coming out," they warned, and then they opened the door.